


Just an Expression

by mickeyjohn



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Friendship, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeyjohn/pseuds/mickeyjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is the key? That's great, but Elsa's spent a lifetime making sure no one got close enough to love her. Rumors of Jack Frost, whose heart she couldn't freeze even if she tried, seem too good to be true. Finding him, however, proves more difficult than she anticipated, especially when she gains an unasked-for companion on her quest--a doubting, sarcastic guard named Stabbington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually have time to write this (heh), but after seeing Frozen, I just became so enamored of Elsa's character. I felt there was a lot more to explore with her. I didn't make this story a crossover, because it's set firmly in the Frozen universe. But obviously there will be a prominent character from Tangled, and most likely a character from Rise of the Guardians . . . but if you haven't seen those movies, you'll be okay.
> 
> The romantic in me also informs you this will be a love story, cause I can't help myself. But I ain't sayin' who may or may not be falling in love with whom. (; Enjoy!

**Chapter One**

**Elsa**

I really don't like summer.

Compared to the crisp surety of winter, everything feels soupy; the air thick with smells only released under pressure of heat; the sluggish nature of each, long day; all the nasty bugs that emerge from the cracks of the castle's stone walls.

The one saving grace of this wretched season is the flowers, I suppose. A vase of aster blooms and lilies sits on my sister's bedside and I bend to smell them, closing my eyes. Anna's bubbly, ongoing diatribe fades briefly into the background.

"Elsa, are you listening?"

She grabs my shoulder and I startle. The lilies instantly freeze—stunning, hardened replicas of the now dead flowers. "Sorry." Anna winces. "Um, don't worry about it—they were going to die soon anyway."

My shoulders sag. Yes, they were. That's partly why I like them. There's something strangely comforting about something so inherently temporary, yet beautiful in the short time it lives. Sometimes I think of them with little spirits, choosing valiantly to bloom even knowing their time will be fleeting.

Still, I'm upset about turning them into unwitting ice sculptures. As far as I've come, every time I unintentionally cause harm through my powers, it's a rub against a wound I'm starting to think will never fully heal, precisely because I can't seem to stop figuratively stabbing myself there.

I don't say anything of this to Anna. I smile and wave off her concerned expression. "Yes," I tell her. "I am listening. For the tenth time, stop worrying and _go_. I'm sure Kristoff is impatient." I lift an eyebrow and Anna turns pink.

"I know, but a month is a long time," she says, ignoring my implication. "Maybe I could just be gone two weeks."

I smile and go to her bag, still open on her bed, placing a folded, sheer slip in among her other clothes. She'll find it when she unpacks and then she can do with it what she will. "It takes almost five days by ship to even get there, and still another to shake off seasickness. This way you'll have enough time to actually enjoy yourselves." Besides, I intend to turn the castle into a nice, refreshing igloo for the whole of August while they're gone.

"What did you put in there?" Anna asks, eyes narrowing.

"Just some chocolate," I say innocently, holding up my second honeymoon present: wrapped cocoa truffles.

Anna's expression softens. She fights a smile. "They'll melt."

"No they won't." With a twirl of my finger, I enchant the glossy wrapping to maintain an even chill.

Without warning, Anna grabs me and hugs me fiercely to her. "We'll be back before your coronation anniversary," she says in my ear.

Or the anniversary of the eternal winter, as the villagers seem to remember it—that time the troll prophecy "almost came true," but thankfully Queen Elsa "figured everything out."

Which I did. Figure things out. Obviously.

It's just that . . . finding a solution doesn't necessarily mean the problem is solved, does it? Yes, I realized that when ice passes through me, love is the filter that lets it emerge as something pure, a natural extension of myself. The only problem is a lifetime of distancing myself from such emotion has made me the accidental perpetrator of my own undoing.

Anna pulls back, holding me by the shoulders, and I see the face of the only person in the entire world I love—and the only person who loves me.

And she's going.

She's my sister. I'll always have her, but she isn't mine. Not for the first time, I feel a pang of resentment for the years of friendship stolen from us in our childhood. After the eternal winter left, it hurt every time I saw Anna and Kristoff growing closer and she and I growing farther apart. Even though it's exactly as it should be, I can't help my jealousy. I rely on her much more than she relies on me, but that's not her fault. It isn't fair to expect more from her than she should be asked to give. Besides, I'm starting to love Kristoff to as my new brother-in-law, and I'm sure I'll adore any nieces and nephews they give me.

They're my family. I'm not alone. It's just . . . I sort of am, even still.

A few months ago we lost a ship in an early spring storm. The entire crew drowned at sea, including the trusted advisor who'd helped my parents during their rule, not to mention the cost of the ruined cargo to our small kingdom's economy. We heard the news together. Anna turned into Kristoff, letting him put his arms around her, and I stood alone.

"I worry about you," Anna says softly.

"Don't," I say—and I mean it. It's not like I sit in my cold room all day and ache for a warm body to lie next to. Even in my loneliness I recognize it's for the better. I don't regret extinguishing all royal possibilities over the years. I'm in more control now, but what if someday I'm not? What if we fight? What if in an explosion of temper I freeze his heart like I did Anna's? How can I be expected to be vulnerable and honest with anyone when doing so might expose them to the dangerous side of who I am?

But I've heard . . . rumors.

Rumors of someone like me, who rides on the winds of winter. It makes sense. No vengeful witch cursed me with these powers. I was born with them. Surely—someone else might have been born with the same, er—abilities?

I haven't told Anna, but for the first time, I feel hopeful. And if he exists, I'm going to find him, this . . . Jack Frost. On the really dark days, he feels like my last chance, faceless and enigmatic though he is.

In the meantime, I'll keep making sentient snow princes and pretend they like me of their own free will. And that they're made of something more substantial than frozen water.

"I know you don't think I need to worry, but I do."

I snap out of my reverie, distracted by the slightly guilty look on Anna's face. "Anna . . ."

"And I know you want me to have a good time on my honeymoon, right? You don't want me to worry about you all alone in this castle?"

I narrow my eyes. She has that anxious, brace-yourself-Elsa tone of voice. "Of course I want you to have a good time," I say slowly. "Why? What did you—"

"Okay-awesome-because-I-may-or-may-not-have-hired-you-a-bodyguard!" She smiles nervously, pauses for maybe half a second, then exhales noisily. "Oh good, you're not mad. Glad we worked that out. Come on—my ship is waiting!"

She closes her bag and swings it up, striding to the door. As she reaches for the handle, a layer of ice closes over the bronze hinge, freezing the door in place. Her shoulders hunch in a guilty grimace and she turns.

"You hired a _what?"_ I ask—remarkably patient, all things considered.

"Just, like . . . a bodyguard." Anna shrugs.

I rub my temple. "Anna, I think you know as well as I do I can take care of myself."

"I know, I know. It's not only about someone protecting you. It's just . . . sometimes the staff doesn't even know you're here! They go weeks without seeing you. And, um, it's not that I don't trust you—but I know you cover up how hard it is sometimes living with your power. You never let anyone help you, even if you need help."

I let what she's saying sink in. Beneath the small touch of guilt I feel, there's annoyance. "So, not a bodyguard . . . a babysitter?" Some of my irritation finally creeps into my voice.

"Don't think of it like that. Think of him—"

_"Him?"_

"—as part time bodyguard, part time personal assistant, part time confidante and advisor. A right hand!"

I stare at her, unbelieving.

"Please?" she asks softly. "Just for one month. One teeny, tiny month. It would make me feel better."

I cave a little. I thought I hid my feelings well, but apparently Anna understood more than she let on if she's so worried about what a month of her absence will do.

"Very well," I say—grudgingly.

She beams, looking so relieved that I almost feel guilty knowing that as soon as her ship is gone I'm going to send whoever-he-is on his way.

"Great! He arrived on the ship today from Corona. Kristoff and I met him. He came highly recommended by Prince Eugene."

"Prince Eugene?" I ask doubtfully. "As in . . . the former Flynn Rider?"

"Well." Anna smirks, lifting a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "When you get can't find your true love among princes, you start checking out thieves and rugged, uncivilized ice harvesters from the mountains . . ."

I purse my lips against my smile, but of course Anna sees through it. She knows she's won. Rubbing her hands together, she raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of rugged ice harvesters and their revealing summer wardrobe . . ."

I laugh. "All right—let's get out of here."

. . . . . . .

Half the kingdom is on the dock to give Anna a honeymoon farewell. It's both endearing and disconcerting to know how deeply our personal lives affect the villagers. The captain sits at the helm, his ship already prepared, waiting patiently as Anna attempts to give every single well-wisher a special goodbye hug and teary speech of gratitude.

"You're not going to create your own personal winter inside the castle while we're gone, right?" I turn as Kristoff approaches. "Because it's just mean to do it while I'm not here."

I grin; Kristoff hates the summer almost as much as I do. As Anna observed, he looks different not bundled in winter furs, and not in a bad way. His tunic sleeves are rolled halfway up his biceps, his blonde hair charmingly messed and hatless.

"No promises," I say. I let out an embarrassing squeal of surprise as a warm, slimy muzzle pushes against my cheek, a rough reindeer tongue licking up the side of my face.

"Sven," Kristoff says, with a scolding look that is half-hearted at best.

I pat Sven's hairy cheek, wiping my own with my other hand. "I'll miss you too."

"Corona, here we come! Oh, hello, Your Majesty. You're looking as devastatingly lovely as always." Olaf is wearing a straw sunhat, a small suitcase in one hand that has the words _Corona or bust!_ on the side. Five days journey south, Corona will be much warmer than Arendelle. I've already taken every cautionary measure I can, but just in case I try and infuse even more of my power into Olaf's personal wintry cloud. I think he'll be fine, but they've never gone this far . . .

Anna arrives in a breathless rush. "Hurry—this might be our last chance!" She tugs on Kristoff's arm to get him onto the plank, waving frantically at me.

I wave back with a sad smile. We've already said goodbye twelve times; no need to drag it out.

She gives me a _look_ , and points meaningfully into the crowd. Frowning, I follow the direction of her jabbing finger, and see a gigantic man, his head a good foot above everyone else's. He's massive, like a human bear, heavy set, with unkempt reddish hair at odds with the clipped styles of most of the gentlemen who come through our doors. His features are thick and generous—like a peasant's, I think unkindly. I check myself. He's not to blame; my irritation is for Anna, not him. He is, to be blunt, utterly terrifying. Despite the crowds, there is a foot of empty space in a full circle around him. People are tripping over each other rather than invade his self-proclaimed territory.

Hiding my displeasure, I turn back and watch as the crew prepares for launch. At the captain's call, the main sail drops and the ship cuts forward through the water. I inhale shakily, then raise my arm and send a whirling, thick wind against the sails. Everyone onboard cheers. Anna races to the back helm as they speed away.

"I love you, Elsa!" she calls.

I keep my hand up so she knows I love her too, but I don't call back. I can't, even after everything—not so openly in front of so many people.

"Your Majesty?"

To my side, a smallish man bows. He's the head butler, and I'm fairly certain his name is John. He stands several feet away from me. I sigh. Anna is right. The staff barely know me—I barely know them.

"Will you be returning for dinner this evening?" he asks.

I wince, imagining the overdone meal at the enormous table by myself. What I'd really like is send them all away, tell them to take a month long vacation, so I can . . .

No. Freedom is . . . nice (okay, more than nice). But it's only a cheap form of control. Without love, without Anna, I'd eventually lose sight of whatever feeble warmth my heart has managed to hold on to. I need to at least try.

"Yes, thank you. John, isn't it?" I smile, trying not to appear too strained.

He returns the smile—so patient, so willing to forgive my flaws, as they all are. "Yes, Your Majesty."

I nod, turning away from the dock, and nearly run into a human-shaped mountain. I step back, startled, and look up . . . and up again until I meet the eyes of Anna's supposed bodyguard.

"Your Majesty," he says, with the slightest decline of his chin. He'd practically have to sit down if he wanted to accomplish a proper bow.

"Hello," I say tightly.

He seems unruffled by my royal status—or, as is more common, my icy powers. I've always been a quiet person, and I'm used to people overcompensating for my silence by babbling themselves. But he says nothing; he studies me so long the ground seems to disappear.

"Your name, sir?" I don't do small talk. I am, however, quite good at commands.

"Stabbington, Your Majesty."

"Stabbington?" Only years of ruthless self-discipline keep my face blank. ". . . your name is Stabbington?"

His mouth curls in a slight smirk. The expression speaks of a lifetime of experience dealing with reactions to his name. I'm sure not all of them have been pleasant, but he doesn't seem offended. "I'm good with a knife," he says.

"Your mother must have been prophetic," I say wryly.

"Stabbington is my last name, so it's more a hereditary title." I don't know what my face looks like, but his smirk becomes more pronounced. "Surprised I know a five-syllable word?" he asks.

"No." But I blush. "Excuse me, Mr. Stabbington." I attempt to move around him and he steps pointedly to the side. I have every intention of dismissing him, but not now, in such a public setting.

As I walk by, he calls behind me, "I'll meet you inside the castle."

I grit my teeth, and the cobblestones under my feet freeze over. Perfect . . . just perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Stabbington**

I should have asked for more money. From the Arendelle princess and from the impatient little nose wipe from the Southern Isles. In my limited experience with princesses, they're difficult, yeah, and definitely annoying—but they're also easily intimidated, jumpy, and ultimately unsure. I get the feeling, from our brief encounter, that Queen Elsa won't be bullied into doing something she doesn't want to do, but she also gives off that innate insecurity that comes from living too long behind walls, especially those made of castle stone. She might as well have a big fat COMPLICATED stamped on her forehead, which is going to make my job just an absolute pleasure, a real blessed treat.

I pass the guard by the front gate and flip up the paper that has Princess Anna's seal on it, granting me admission into the palace court. I also give the guard a lazy glare down my nose—my trademark 'I-kill-little-runts-like-you-for-sport-when-I'm-bored' look. Predictably, he tenses and waves me through, eager to be rid of me. Arendelle is a pansy little kingdom; relatively small compared to some, with its harder living conditions so close to the high mountains; peaceful, hasn't seen much war. As a result, the villagers are soft, pliable, and eager to push out conflict or anything that challenges their steady way of life. The guards have nothing much to do except settle meaningless peasant squabbles and escort smiling princesses around. They wouldn't last a day in my world.

I meander through the palace halls unconcerned, prepared to show my paper again if anyone stops me, but no one does. In fact, the whole place is suspiciously empty, for the home of an entire kingdom's ruling force. My satchel hangs off my shoulder by one hand; it's light, weighed down only by a change of clothes, a small amount of money, and a rolled case of dried jerky. Everything else I need I carry on my person: three different knifes, rope, sharpening stone, long sword, short broadsword, flint and steel, mace, mid-sized battle axe, pick, and spyglass. Only three of these are actually visible.

I pause in front of an upward spiraling staircase that most likely leads to the living quarters and private bedrooms.

"Mr. Stabbington." There is a tangible iciness to the Queen's voice. It's like I can feel her brittle words scraping against the skin on the back of my neck.

I turn and there she is, standing with her hands clasped regally in front of her. She is, as I concluded after our first meeting, very beautiful without being particularly attractive to me. Give me a girl from the village I grew up in, warm, freckled, smelling like food—not pretty, just nice, with a soft mouth, ample hips and chest. The Queen's beauty is like looking at the moon; it takes your breath away, but you know you'll never touch it.

Her face shows nothing but polite interest, her posture the perfect balance of erect and relaxed confidence. But she's mad. All that poise is just a pretty frame for the miniature volcano bubbling just behind her eyes.

"I see you've made yourself at home," she continues.

"I would have waited for you to give me the tour, but it didn't seem like you were going to offer."

Just the slightest twitch of tension, then she exhales softly. "I understand you've spoken with my sister about certain . . . duties this month, but I assure you your services are unnecessary."

Right. Princess Anna's sisterly worries, unnecessary though they probably are, happen to occupy the bottom of my Reasons for Enduring Queen Elsa list. I choose not to say anything.

"I'll happily pay you whatever you and Anna agreed upon, as well as your passage home—"

"The princess already paid me," I say.

"Oh." She blinks. "Oh—well then, I can offer you additional compensation for your trouble, but—"

"No, I mean she already paid me," I say pointedly. "She paid me to do a job that I, as an honest working man, agreed to do. It would be dishonest to sell my obligation to the highest bidder."

Queen Elsa's jaw tightens. "How very . . . noble of you."

Hard to say whether or not she bought my shining integrity speech. Heaven knows I'm not an honest working man, though I could sure pass as one by the time I left Corona. Thinking of Corona, even briefly, reminds me of the Pit: the dark sucking thing in my chest that will be there until the day I die. I pretend it's not there. Otherwise, some days, it almost swallows me whole.

Shaking off the momentary relapse into darker thoughts, I concentrate again on Queen Elsa's despairing face. "I'm not going anywhere," I say.

Princess Anna is secondary to my first employer, a certain prince of the Southern Isles nursing a grudge against Queen Elsa's frosty mark on his life. Magic and I have a shaky history together, but the offer came with a hefty reward and a way to leave my homeland and all the memories it contains, so even after hearing stories about the Snow Queen, I jumped at the opportunity.

I nod at the staircase. "So, you going to show me to my new room?"

Queen Elsa lets out a short laugh, seemingly more from surprise than humor. "Room? Upstairs? There are plenty of good inns in Arendelle, Mr. Stabbington."

"An inn is too far away. If I'm going to protect you, I'll need to be close by." I take the first step up the stairs.

A flash of anger in the Queen's eyes is the only warning I get, and then suddenly I'm hoisted into the air, my entire body pressed in by freezing, powerful ice. My arms, neck, and head are my only free extremities. A swirl of ice has sprouted from the floor like a curved mountaintop, trapping me in its clutches.

Queen Elsa steps closer, looking up at me through narrowed eyes. No way am I going to give her the satisfaction of begging, but as hard as I fight, the ice doesn't even crack. The cold is penetrating; already my jaw starts to quiver, though I bite down hard to hide it.

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear," the Queen says softly. As she speaks, the ice around me grows pointy arms of its own, the deadly sharp tips pressing gently into the sides of my neck. I'm afraid to swallow for fear the motion will cause the pristine daggers to puncture. "I don't need you or anyone else to protect me. I can protect myself."

Evidently, yes. Point very nicely taken.

I keep my mouth shut.

"If Anna has given you permission to be here, I can't forbid you from doing your job without valid reason." She pauses, as if she thinks irritating her is plenty reason enough. "But you will stay away from me, do you understand?"

I manage a tiny nod. Inwardly, I'm more determined than ever to find the vulnerability of her power, if only for the sake of vengeance.

"Good." She turns and starts up the stairs.

"Hey," I croak. "Hey—you can't just leave me like this—"

"It's summer, Mr. Stabbington," she says without turning around. "Plenty of daylight left. You'll thaw before too long."

. . . . . . . .

I do, eventually, thaw.

It helps that my considerable, squirming body mass is an effective inner heat source, and that a few pitying servants happen along and help chip away enough I can reach my pick. By the time I'm out, I'm blue and shivery, but my body temperature isn't the only thing that's cooled. I'm feeling less vindictive than my slew of colorful vocabulary would have suggested when she first froze me. If I wasn't going to feed her to the wolves in due time, I might feel differently, but as the situation stands, she's only come out victor in the first battle of a war I will win in the end.

As soon as I'm out of my temporary ice prison, I get to work. I'm no scholar and have no talent or capacity for understanding magic, but I do make a pretty decent thief. I spend the rest of the afternoon learning the layout of the entire castle, and then memorize it. I pick an empty room in the same corridor as the princesses', and even though I don't see Queen Elsa, when I lay down on the still made bed after the sun has gone down, I keep my broadsword where I can easily grab it (not that a broadsword would stop her, but it makes me feel better).

Between the ridiculously too-soft mattress and worrying the Queen is going to barge in and dump me out of the room a'la blizzard tempest, I don't expect to get much sleep. Not that I sleep much lately anyway. Nowadays my only chance for relief is to stay awake for three days straight until I have no choice but to pass out in exhaustion. At least now I have something for my mind to concentrate on, namely: the quest-sized task of finding a way to neutralize Queen Elsa's power.

As the whiny prince took great pains to educate me, any magic can be separated from its host—it's only a matter of _how._ I'm just smart enough to see that I don't have a prayer of outsmarting the Queen. But then, I may not have to trick her. I just have to watch her—to be there in those brief moments when her weaknesses are exposed. Easier said than done, of course—especially as she basically threatened me on pain of death not to come anywhere near her. But maybe . . .

A scream shatters the night's stillness. Even muffled through the walls, I recognize it instantly. Queen Elsa.

I sprint from my room, broadsword in hand. I already know which room is Elsa's, but when I get to the double doors, they're completely frozen over. Ice leaks from the corners of the gilded doorframe, encroaching upon the ceiling and the painted walls in intricate patterns. What the hell is going on in there?

"Elsa!" I pound a huge fist on her door, ignoring the sting of cold.

A solid block of ice covers the door handle; I can't even grip it. I swing my broadsword against the thick, frozen shield, but the resulting chip in my blade is far bigger than the chip in the ice. I won't get anywhere this way. "Elsa!" I pound again. The screaming has stopped. I don't know if that's good or bad. I feel panicked, but I don't stop and ponder the source of my desperation. I doubt it's solely for her well-being. Maybe I just don't want anyone else doing my job for me.

I raise my fist to pound a third time, but before I can, the ice begins to disappear. Slowly but surely it sinks back into the Queen's room as if pulled by an inner source of gravity. I stand there, blinking stupidly, my sword hanging at my side, and the doors creak open just enough to reveal a pale, faintly glowing queen.

Her platinum hair is in a loose braid over her shoulder, a white cotton dressing gown pulled snug over her shoulders. Her face is clear, placid—expressionless, almost—but there are two flushed bursts at the tops of her cheeks and her eyes are rimmed in red.

"Did you need something?" she asks quietly.

Um.

Is she serious? Is she really pretending nothing happened? She even looks vaguely annoyed, of all things—as if _I_ interrupted _her_.

"I . . . are you all right?" I ask finally, feeling dumb.

"Other than being awoken by a brutish pounding in the middle of the night," she says primly, "I'm quite fine."

Okay. I mean, what the hell? I don't know what to say. I can't exactly accuse her of anything, because I have no idea what was happening on the other side of her door. Looking behind her, I see no traces of ice or snow.

After a moment of stiff silence, she adds, barely audible, "Everything's under control now." She glances up and— _there_ —the tiniest flicker of real emotion.

"Well. Goodnight then." I glare to let her know I'm not duped even if I'm letting it go for now.

She doesn't acknowledge my glare; she only seems tired. "Goodnight." She shuts the door.

I blow out a long breath and go back to my room. This is going to be a long, weird, weird month.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**Elsa**

I catch Stabbington's approaching figure out the library window as he moves across the courtyard. Where is he coming back from now? Without meaning to, I rise halfway out of my chair so I can track his progress. I sit down abruptly, irritated at myself. I don't care where he was.

After two weeks there's emerged an odd sort of routine between us, and I expect him to disappear for long stretches of time, reappearing conveniently when I least want him around. He's usually there when I eat, and manages to find some corner to stand in whenever I have court business, hovering like a sullen bear. Where he goes when he's not bothering me, I have no idea. I never ask. I can picture his face if I ever did; that look of his that manages to be both unreadable and convey a distant contempt.

Not that I'm particularly pleasant to him either. For even his most innocuous comments, I have a sharp retort. I'm not proud to say that I have a knack for twisting anything he says or does so that he seems stupid. It's not my intention to be so harsh . . . well, no. Actually, it is—but not out of meanness or because I think he's actually stupid (though I'm not entirely innocent of that crime either). I just want him to leave, and he remains impervious to everything I try. Half the time I think the reason I poke at him so hard is because I can't believe he's as undaunted as he seems. My entire life I've perfected the art of driving someone away if I don't want them there, and nothing works on him.

Anna must have paid him very, very well.

Either that, or he really is a man of honor. Unlikely.

Thanks to his annoyingly persistent presence, I get to study him up close. It seems almost an act of determination on his part not to do anything that might make him look respectable in proper society. His auburn hair grows in a shapeless mess. His blue eyes are lined—with exhaustion?—and their dark, hooded quality, combined with the ruddy hue of his nose and cheeks and the jagged scar on the left side of his face, makes him appear like he just finished with a fight before coming to meet you. He looks like maybe he kills people in his spare time, frankly. I try not to ever look into his eyes, only to note the general direction of his gaze, but once or twice, when I've glanced at him and he's looking at nothing, I've been distracted by their hollow quality, as if he's a few steps removed from the world around him.

A defense mechanism? I wondered the first time I noticed, perhaps recognizing an expression I'd worn myself—when the only way to cope with your life is to pretend it's not happening.

I sigh, leaning my chin into my hand. Two more weeks. Two more weeks and then I'll have plenty of other company so I'm not so desperate as to give rogues like Stabbington precious minutes of my thinking time (or hours, if I'm being honest, and if we're adding them up). This, unsurprisingly, doesn't make me feel better.

I'm not ready for the coronation anniversary, especially now that news has filtered past our gates that I only warded off suitors because of my ice powers and since I apparently have those completely under control, I'm back on the market.

In my brave moments I let those rumors stand. I do have my powers under control—or if not under control, at least figured out. In my not so brave moments I freeze innocent inanimate objects in spurts of panic worrying I might have to commit to a relationship.

I turn back to the books I was studying as if they hold my salvation—which in a way they might.

Jack Frost is said to be a friendly spirit, but can be very dangerous. If one were to insult him he would cover that person with snow or turn them into frost. Jack is the personification of crisp, cold, winter weather. Some legends portray him as an old man, Father Winter. Others say he is young, a mischief-making sprite, carefree and happiest when he can behave as he pleases. To some Jack Frost is friendly, but if provoked, he kills his victims by burying them in snow and ice.

I raise an eyebrow. "Tsk—Jack. You wouldn't do that."

Nothing answers me, of course.

I check over my shoulder to make sure the door is locked. Satisfied, I turn back and lift a hand. Next to my desk a snowy figure swirls up from the ground and solidifies in front of me. My Jack is young, graceful, and has a handsome face. He's also entirely made of snow. His blank white eyes blink at me.

"Lovely to see you," I say with a courteous nod.

He smiles and dips in a low bow.

As hard as I try, I can't make him talk—not like what I did with Olaf. Just more proof that love really is at the root of my power. Olaf sprang from the fertile ground of my relationship with Anna; this little Jack Frost dummy springs from my miserable loneliness.

Snow-Jack jumps up, landing lightly on the corner of my desk, crossing his legs under him. He cranes his neck, peering at my books with curiosity.

"Would you like me to read one of the stories about you?" I ask.

He nods.

I clear my throat. "Once upon a time," I begin. "There was a woman who had a daughter of her own, whom she loved, and a step-daughter, whom she hated. One day the woman orders her husband to take her stepdaughter out into the winter fields and leave her there to die, and he obeys. Jack Frost finds her there; she is polite and kind to him, so he gives her a chest full of beautiful things and fine garments. The family dog says that the girl is coming back, and that she is beautiful and happy.

"When the stepmother sees what her stepdaughter has brought back, she orders her husband to take her own daughter out into the fields. Unlike before, this child is rude to Jack Frost, and he freezes her to death. When her husband goes out to bring her back, the dog says the girl will be buried. When the father brings back the body, the old woman weeps."

Snow-Jack stares at me with an adorable, horrified look on his face.

"I couldn't agree more," I say, shutting the book. I give a small shudder. "Fairytales. They're so grim sometimes. You wouldn't freeze an innocent girl to death, would you Jack?"

He resolutely shakes his head.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. But then I would have said the same thing and I almost did freeze an innocent girl to death—a girl I loved very much." My head lowers.

He reaches out a hand to press against my cheek. The small crystals of snow in his solid touch scrape against my skin. I look up and he puts his ice cold lips against the top of my hair in a soft kiss.

"Queen Elsa?" Someone knocks at the door.

I splay a hand against Snow-Jack's chest and he shatters into a million confectionary pieces that sprinkle in a cloud around me. I rise to my feet and hastily wipe snow off my dress as I hurry to the door. "Coming—just a moment."

John, the butler, is on the other side of the door. "I just wanted to remind you there is a trade affairs hearing in ten minutes."

"Right. Of course. Outside?"

He smiles, reading my dismay all too well. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. But if I may say so, you are the queen. If you wish the proceedings to occur inside, they shall."

"No. No, that would be silly. I'll be there in a minute." I won't force everyone else to shiver just so I can be comfortable.

. . . . . . . . .

I can't be the only one suffering in this heat. Next to me, Stabbington's temples are damp, though his face retains an unaffected coolness. I can't believe he's wearing gloves in this weather, and long sleeves.

In the summer months, the inner courtyard is turned into a sort of receiving hall. I have a nice regal platform to sit on against one wall, with a swath of fabric draped over the top to provide some shade, but it doesn't do much. For hours I must remain polite, welcoming, and diplomatic to dozens of ambassadors that wait in line to sort their affairs with Arendelle. Different days mean different groups of people, but at least once a month, representatives from Arendelle's multiple trading routes are given the chance to voice complaints or discuss issues that have risen in our contracted dealings.

I will say, there's not much to be grateful for with Stabbington, but it is rather nice to have his imposing figure standing just to my side. Anytime one of the sea-weary envoys gets too hostile or impatient, Stabbington switches from distant to very much present, and they back off. It's uncanny; Stabbington barely even moves, but I see these men glance at him after he's made the decision to intimidate them, and they immediately pale and begin to stammer.

For fifteen minutes we've been listening to the representative from the kingdom of Florin whine about a pirate raid that, first of all, I can do nothing about, and secondly, happened far outside of Arendelle's boundaries. They lost a cargo comprised mostly of tea, and he keeps saying, in this nasally voice, "Very odd to brew the tea with salt water, very odd indeed."

Stabbington releases a low, groaning breath. "Shut _up_ . . ." he mutters, too quiet for anyone but me to hear.

I don't think. A stifled snort escapes before I can stop it.

Embarrassed, I slide a sidelong glance at him from the corner of my eye. He heard me, of course. He smirks, eyes crinkling a little, and I get the disconcerting sensation of having shared a conspiratorial secret with him.

Unnerved, I turn back and listen to the rest of the Florinese man's speech, and attempt to advise him to choose safer waters the next time around.

A man bursts from the crowd, his shirt torn, waving a painted flag. "End the ban on Weselton!" he shouts.

At first I'm too startled to do anything. Then I realize the man isn't alone. Behind him are three other painted, armed protesters. All have a wild glint in their eyes.

"We demand justice!" the first screams.

I grip the arms of my throne and frost spreads from under my palms. I should have worn gloves. I've become too complacent, arrogant in my assumption that I can manage my powers now.

No. I can do this. I can control it. Drawing back my shoulders, I ignore the tension rippling through the crowd and look at the rabid group. They're closer now. "Please—" I begin, and one of the men rushes forward, a club held high over his head.

"Justice!"

Immediately my powers spring up; I feel the prickly release as it surfaces in my skin. I clench my eyes shut. _No, no . . ._

I wait for the scream as shards of ice impale him. A shadow falls over me, then a hand covers my arm. I suck a sharp breath through my teeth, resisting, and hear a grunting crash and a squealing gasp of pain. Finally I open my eyes.

"Let go, Your Majesty," Stabbington says.

I'm gripping his now frozen forearm. My hands fly off him as if he's burned me. "Oh—"

Stabbington leans back and uses his free hand to hurl a spear across the courtyard. I can't see what he's aiming at, but the resulting loud scream and Stabbington's satisfied smirk let me know he found his target.

I clutch my wrist, curling my arms into my chest, struggling to keep my breath even. My eyes widen. "Did you—"

"Nah." Stabbington rolls a shoulder. "I got him in the leg. He'll be fine—just immobile."

I feel like crying when I look at his frost-covered arm. "I'm so sorry—" I begin.

"Don't be." He flexes his arm up and clenches his fist. To my utter shock, the icy layer around his arm cracks and breaks, falling off in chunks as he shakes out his arm. He twinkles his gloved fingers. "Special leather and wool, from the high mountains. The ice harvesters put a special solvent on it that dissolves and wards off ice."

The breath I let out is half sob. My relief is so palpable I have to lean forward over my knees to stay upright. Maybe I'm hysterical, but it seems funny to me. His arms are the size of small tree trunks. I'd have a hard time freezing them all the way through anyway. I bite off my laughter. With a hard swallow, I look down and see the crumpled figure by Stabbington's feet, the wooden club that is busted in two different places.

"Did you hit him with his own club?" I ask, strained.

"Nope. He hit me with the club."

I stare at the bent mess of a weapon. "And it just . . . broke against you."

"Most things do." He's looking quite pleased with himself. Bit by bit, I'm putting together what happened. It was Stabbington's shadow I felt, his hand on my arm. He gave me a channel to direct my power and then took care of the men from Weselton. I don't know what to think.

"It didn't occur to you I'd actually be good at my job, did it?" asks Stabbington. He watches as Arendelle's guards tie up the Weselton men. He stretches out a leg and unceremoniously kicks the unconscious man's body off the platform. "For someone so sure she can protect herself, you seemed pretty helpless to me."

"You didn't protect me," I snap. I hug my arms. "You protected _them._ " My eyes lower. "I was trying to stop myself from . . . from hurting them . . ."

He raises an eyebrow. "They didn't seem too concerned about hurting you."

"You don't understand."

He crouches down on knee, bringing us eye level. "Look, kid. Some people deserve it. Next time just ice the bastard."

I shake my head, but I'm smiling, in spite of myself.

"Your Majesty! Are you all right?" John rushes toward me, face tight with anxiety.

"I'm fine." As I stand, I realize I really am fine, if a little shaky. Thanks to Stabbington, I think, entirely unsure how I feel about that. "Guards—please take these men into our holding cells. I'll compose a letter to the Duke of Weselton to figure out what to do with them. All other trading affairs are postponed. Mr. Stabbington—" I look at him, command in my voice. "Come . . . come with me please."

"As you wish."

I use his arm to steady myself as I step off the platform, holding my dress in my other hand. I keep my chin high, my expression dignified. "And don't call me kid," I mutter at him. "I'm the Queen, not your backyard play pal."

"Right." He rolls his eyes. " _Sorry._ "

For the second time that day, I surprise myself by smiling.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's notes: I might hang on with Archive of Our Own a few more chapters, but it drives me nuts that it erases all my italics and editing and I have to go back through and manually put them in. I might stick to fanfiction - net, but if I do, I'll give y'all fair warning.

**Chapter Four**

**Stabbington**

"Please sit down, Mr. Stabbington."

I don't sit, or do anything, actually, except stare at Queen Elsa. One part of me wants to answer her likes this: Listen, Your Majesty, I'm not a dog, so don't tell me to sit. Saying please doesn't make it any better.

The other part of me is thinking: what does she mean _sit down?_

Next to her? On one of the high-backed mahogany chairs, pulled up to her insanely long dining table, with the white tablecloth, china plates, and ivory inlaid silverware?

. . . why?

There's a trick here. Somewhere. The queen waits in her spot at the head of the table, watching me. Typically she does a good job avoiding people, keeping herself at a careful distance, but when she feels so inclined, her attention is direct, and she meets your eye in this really unnerving, unblinking way.

"What?" I wave a hand irritably at the space next to her. "Sit—like, on the chair?"

"That's what I would choose to sit on, yes." Her face is deadpan.

"Cute," I say, to let her know that after two weeks of careful observation, I know exactly when she's making fun of me. But I sit, awkwardly lowering myself into the chair on her left. Touching all this fancy stuff makes me itchy. I shift, ignoring her amused smirk. "So, what? You want me in closer range so you can slap me? Why do I have to sit?"

"Because it's hard to enjoy a meal standing up," she says.

Oh. Now I get it.

I cringe. "Um—no. I don't think that's—"

Too late. The queen—Her Royal Pain in the Arse—is already dishing up a plate from the luxurious spread her chefs laid out in front of her. I'm sure it's delicious, and I'm sure her slender frame isn't going to be able to fit even a third of it in, but that's not the point. The point is, she's the queen, and I am only recently a sorry step up from hired thug, and this whole arrangement is weird. Really weird.

So I tell her.

"This is weird," I say.

"You're making it weird," she says, rolling her eyes. "We're the only two people in the room."

"Until they bring in dessert."

"I'm beginning to doubt you'll last that long."

"But—why?"

She looks surprised. "Oh." She puts her hands in her lap. She's doing that thing she does, where instead of simply reacting like a normal person, she draws herself up, cool and elegant, and then delivers a calculated response as to what she thinks will appease the other person. "Well, you did something very kind for me yesterday. I appreciated it. And I realized I don't even know your first name, so I'm . . . extending a gesture of goodwill."

I stare at her. She stares back—not intimidated, but now also uncertain. After a moment, her cheeks blossom with spots of pink.

"Kay," I tell her.

"Excuse me?"

"My first name is Kay."

Her shoulders drop with relief. "Oh. Well. That's much nicer than Stabbington."

"Unfortunately for you, you don't get to use it."

She lifts an eyebrow. She's probably not used to people telling her what to do.

"I don't get to call you Elsa."

"No, you don't."

"Well then. I guess we'll stay Her Majesty and Mr. Stabbington."

Her lips quirk. "That sounds like a terrifying children's book."

"I wouldn't read it to my kids."

"Do you have any?"

"Kids?" My eyes narrow. "How old do you think I am?" I'm twenty-seven. But years of rough living do make me look tattered beyond my years.

"You look young," the queen says, not missing a beat. "You just seem the type to have gotten an early start on that sort of thing."

Right. Is that a compliment, or an insult? Delicately worded or not, I can't believe something even brushing the subject of s-e-x just left the Queen's mouth. Frankly, I'm surprised she knows what it is. "I did," I say, with a slow grin.

"Of course." Her lips curl as her attention goes briefly to her food. She cuts a piece of salmon and I realize I haven't even touched mine.

"Do you have other family?" she asks.

The question hits me hard. I'm not prepared for it, though I should have been. It is, after all, a normal thing to ask. Luckily I just put a forkful of cold chicken in my mouth so I can take my time answering as the Pit yawns black and heavy inside me. I'm reminded that no amount of food, no matter how fine, will ever assuage the feeling of emptiness in the place where my heart once was. I swallow—both the mouthful of chewed meat and the urge to give in to the consuming sense of loss.

"No," I answer shortly.

But Elsa saw whatever darkness I'm sure flashed over my face. She watches me, brow gently furrowed, but to my great relief, doesn't push the subject. Instead she takes a pot off the tray by her elbow and pours me a mug of tea.

Tea isn't going to make me feel better, but I take it because I'm desperate to be distracted. I sip, and then immediately spit it back out. "Ugh—gross."

"What?" Elsa's eyes widen. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's barely room temperature. _Bleck._ " I stick out a tongue. Nothing like lukewarm weed water to make you forget your inner woes.

"It is?" She looks honestly surprised, giving her own cup of tea a doubtful look.

I grab her cup, ignoring her spluttered protest, and bring it up to my nose to sniff.

"Don't you dare drink out of my—"

I drink.

"Yours isn't warm either," I say and hand it back.

She glares, and then after pointedly turning it around so the place where my lips touched the rim is as far as possible, she takes her own sip. She blinks, taken aback. "Yes, it is," she says quietly.

Interesting. To her, tepid is warm. Prince Hans warned me that touching her would be like bathing in ice. I can't help but wonder, if it feels like that to us . . . what does it feel like to her? If she's so cold, the smallest touch must burn like fire.

I hesitate, only a moment, then reach out and press my finger on the back of her hand. Geez. She really is cold. But she doesn't feel lifeless, like stone—it's a bit like putting my finger in a freezing, churning river.

"How does that feel?" I don't mean for my voice to come out soft like it does. Well, not soft. Nothing about me is soft, ever. But it sounds quieter than usual, kind of husky, and it gives the very tiny contact we have more gravity than it deserves.

She looks up. "It's warm— _you're_ very warm." Her voice trembles—barely, but I notice.

I lift my finger off and then press it against my cheek, testing. The skin of my fingertip is cool.

"Am I cold?" Elsa whispers.

"Yes." I won't lie to her.

She nods thoughtfully. "I don't feel cold. I just feel like myself."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I just stay quiet, but the silence between us isn't tense. A second later the doors open and Queen Elsa's servants enter carrying dessert. Until they swept in, dazzling reminders of her position, I almost didn't realize that at some point in our conversation she'd become simply Elsa in my head.

. . . . . . .

Two days later I get a letter. Guess who it's from?

It's nearly three pages long, but it can basically be summarized into one paragraph:

The winter solstice happens early this year. Winter solstice is the unofficial start of winter, and it's the shortest day and longest night of the year. This particularly year—for the first time in over three decades—this impossibly long night is going to be especially dark because it's also a new moon. In short, this rather ominous turn of events creates the perfect window to rob a certain Snow Queen of her powers.

With love, the Southern Isles.

Oh—no wait. I forgot. The last part of the letter is the best part, an annoyingly ambiguous P.S., which more or less says that for the Winter Solstice to even matter, I need some kind of magical winter item.

That's not a paraphrase, either.

The actual letter says "some kind of magical winter item"—as if I will automatically know what that means. There is a nice parenthetical "i.e.," however, that lists a few equally unhelpful examples:

Santa's snowglobe

Jack Frost's staff

The original Nutcracker doll

The North Wind's conch shell

Frosty the Snowman's old silk hat

I mean—does he just expect me to pop down to the local market and pick one of these up? I don't even know what most of them are!

This is typical of people who hire other people to do their dirty work. They want to micromanage you, tell you exactly the way it needs to be done, they just don't want to actually do it.

Fine by me. Not like I was gonna rummage through a library and find all this stuff out myself. Of course, that also doesn't mean I've been sitting on my ass. I work the way I know how, by appealing to my own kind. The ice harvesters around these parts are better informed than a dusty book anyway. I hike up the mountains, I join their rough, bandied conversations inside cramped wooden bars, I learn the folklore, the legends, and most important, I learn everything they know about ice and snow—which is a lot.

That's where I'm headed now, to see if they can tell me about the winter solstice or "magical winter items," which I've decided to call MWIs in my head for short. I'm not particularly hopeful, but strangely, I'm also not frustrated by my hopelessness. The more days that go by, the less excited I am by the idea of shutting Elsa down. Whenever I start to imagine what will happen to her if her powers are taken away, I make myself think of something else.

I pass by the closed ballroom door and hear a muffled female voice inside. I pause. There's a rhythm to it, like counting. Slowly, in the careful way only a thief can, I open the door a crack and peek inside.

Elsa is inside, facing away from me, and I think she's . . . dancing?

If that is what she's doing, I'm gratified to see not everything in the known universe comes gracefully to her. She's offbeat to her own counting, her arms up as an invisible suitor waltzes her around. After she missteps for the third time in a row, she drops her hands in defeat and curses. A skittering line of frost jets across the floor as a result.

She stands there, fists on her hips, for a long time. I'm about to go, as quietly as I came, when she lifts a hand and a spiral of snow erupts beside her. The wind clears and reveals a crystal white boy, a little taller than she is, with a shock of wild hair.

To my utter amazement, the thing _moves_. I don't know if Elsa is directing him, but he acts like he's alive, sauntering around in a manner the complete opposite of hers. He holds out a hand, and they begin to dance. Not a typical court waltz—but something that is part ice-skating, part flying, part dancing. The room gets colder and snowier the longer they twirl around.

For several moments I'm entranced despite myself. I must unconsciously open the door a little wider, because when the snow boy swings Elsa past my line of vision, she sees me. Her face registers absolute horror. She stops so abruptly, the snow boy loses his balance, spinning and flailing on one foot against the icy floor until he rights himself. He follows Elsa's line of gaze and locks eyes on me. He frowns—an unsettling expression with his blank eyes—and pushes up his sleeves like a bad-tempered villager about to start a fight.

He walks by Elsa toward me. "No—don't!" She realizes what's happening and chops her hand into the side of his neck, effectively decapitating him. His headless body stops, swaying grotesquely. With an apologetic grimace, she flicks out her other hand and he explodes.

"Sorry," she mutters. I'm not sure to which of us she's apologizing.

I wait. I have no idea what I would say even if I wanted to.

She's waiting too—probably for me to ask about her snow boyfriend, but I don't.

Finally, she lifts a shoulder in a defeated shrug. "I was trying to remember how to dance. I haven't done it since I was a child."

"And you're starting now because . . .?"

A flash of relief crosses her face. Relief, perhaps, that I sound as bored and slightly annoyed as I usually do, instead of . . . what? I wonder what reaction she's used to getting.

She pulls a small card out of her pocket. "Sir Benedick from Angria wrote me to say he's greatly looking forward to my anniversary coronation party, and that he hopes we can have a dance."

I scratch the side of my face where my scar is. "And you're hoping to impress Sir Benedick?"

"No! I don't even know him. It just occurred to me that the anniversary is in nine days, and I don't dance, I never dance, and now I'll have to."

"Why? Just tell them no."

"But I don't want to tell them no."

"Maybe you do. Maybe Sir Benedick smells and wears a toupee."

She sighs in irritation. "It's not that, it's . . ." Her face clouds. She's pulling away, hiding any real emotion to an undisclosed location. Her eyes are suddenly so lonely my own stomach clenches at the sight of them. "Never mind."

"You might as well tell me."

I don't mean to say that, and I want to smack myself as soon as the words are out. Not like it matters to me why she dances or doesn't dance, not in the end.

She gives me a glower of long-suffering.

"Like you said, your party is in nine days. That's when your sister will be back and I'm gone anyway." Apparently, I have no control.

She considers this, biting her bottom lip. She hugs her arms and finally glances up at me, still skeptical, but also willing, a touch trusting. I'm not going to lie, the look undoes me a tiny bit—and that sets me into a whole new area of panic.

Elsa takes a breath. "When I suppress my emotions and stifle my power, it just ends up exploding out of me in dangerous, uncontrollable ways. When I use it to make other people happy, when I feel love, then I can control it and everything is fine. I love my sister, but . . . she's married now. That's why I need to learn to dance, not for the sake of dancing, but because . . ." Her voice drops, low and terrible, heartbreak in language form. "I don't want to be alone."

Well, what do you know. _Her Majesty_ and _Mr. Stabbington_ have one thing in common after all. "I take it snow friends don't count," I say.

She smiles wryly. "Since they're an extension of myself, I don't think so." She waves a hand dismissively. "He was my version of Jack Frost."

My ears prick. He was one of the MWIs, wasn't he? Or something connected to him?

"Jack Frost is real?" I ask.

"Some people say so."

"And you're one of them."

She says nothing, but I can tell looking at her face: she definitely is. I know the stories about Jack Frost, and I see the appeal. Jack Frost won't touch her and say she's cold. To Jack Frost, she even has the possibility of being told she's warm.

An idea is brewing in my criminal mind.

"But you've never seen him," I say—casually tossing the bait out.

"Well obviously I wouldn't here," Elsa says defensively. "He doesn't live in Arendelle, and I can't exactly send a letter."

"So go get him."

She glares. "I know what you're thinking—that someone who rides on the North Wind isn't exactly open to visitors, but I've read every book there is on him. You can find him, if you believe. I just . . . I haven't yet."

And there it is. I've read every book there is on him. Elsa is the perfect guide to track down her own demise. All my deeply ingrained habits are telling me to seize this chance, but for whatever reason, I'm reluctant.

As soon as I realize I don't want to trick her into helping me find the MWI connected to Jack Frost, that's when I know I have to.

If I care enough to hinder my own cause, then I clearly care too much. The only thing to do is stomp those feelings out, viciously, and without mercy.

"No time like the present," I say. "You want to awkwardly dance with a bunch of suitors you're half afraid to touch in nine days? Or do you want to ditch, before anyone has a chance to stop you, and go find Jack Frost?" I let this sink in, then I deliver the final charge. "I'll go with you. I know how to track, hunt, navigate rough terrain. You might even be back before the party, future ice-husband in tow."

I've thrown a few sparks, and fortunately, Elsa has enough fuel inside her to catch fire. "This is ridiculous," she says, but even as the admonition fades, insignificant, in the air, her eyes are ablaze. The spontaneity of the decision only feeds her excitement. Remarkably fast, she stares at me, cheeks flushed. "We leave at dawn."


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**Elsa**

Even I admit summer isn't so bad in the early morning hours, especially right before the sun crests the mountaintops. In Arendelle, dawn and dusk last for a long time due to the high mountain ranges; extended periods of magical in-between points. Dusk may expel the heat, but only at dawn does the air cling to the coolness of the night. The singular moment every day that summer gives a nod to winter.

I stand on my balcony without a cloak, but of course I'm not cold. In a few minutes, I'll need to leave to meet Stabbington by the stables. I still can't believe I'm doing this—whatever this even is. "Finding Jack Frost" isn't a hugely conclusive plan, considering the legendary spirit has no home. For all I know, he has no body either. He might not even exist.

But he does. I know it. I can feel the reality of his life deep in my gut—in the cold, fiercely alive part of my soul from where my powers spring. If my books are to be believed, then Jack is the instigator of winter. He's the first breath of frost that covers the fields and crops and rooftops—no year the same time. This, unfortunately, means he might be in a completely different hemisphere than we are, but somehow, I imagine long distance travel isn't really a problem for him.

We need to go where it's cold, and that means the high mountains. Then we—or rather, I—need to create a winter frost when it isn't meant to happen—infringe on his territory, if you will. Who knows, maybe he was around last time I set off the not-so-eternal winter. But if he was, then why didn't he stop it? Stop _me?_

There it is: another twinge of doubt.

I shake it off. All that's left to do is wait and believe. And . . . maybe a send a message.

I raise my hands and create a giant snowflake between my palms, infusing magic into every, tiny detail. It's nearly the size of my head. I need this snowflake to be alive. Not in the sense that Olaf is alive, but alive enough to find Jack Frost, and when it brushes against him, he will feel me inside it and know that I'm looking for him.

I release it and blow it away from me. Good luck, I think, watching it swirl into the ever lightening sky.

. . . . . . . .

Stabbington is already waiting by the time I make it down to the stables. My horse—a regal white stallion—looks almost pony-like next to the enormous Clydesdale the stablehands gave Stabbington to use. I suppose I understand the logic. Anything smaller runs the risk of collapsing underneath him.

He looks up from where he's tying a pack off on the back of my saddle. He looks pointedly at the risen sun. "So, when you say dawn, what you really mean is whenever you feel like leaving?"

"I'm barely a few minutes late," I say dismissively. At this point, I expect a certain level of snarkiness from him, so if he wants a more wounded reaction, he'll have to raise his efforts up a notch. "What are you putting on my saddle?"

"Supplies." He looks over me. "I figured you wouldn't think to bring things that would actually help you survive in the wilderness." I don't have anything on me except a light cloak and a satchel of undergarments and hygienic necessities I didn't think I could go a few days without.

Will it be a few days?

I don't know. We can't know. How long am I willing to look before I give up? And what happens if we actually find Jack Frost? Do I simply . . . invite him back to the castle?

"Relax," Stabbington says, misreading my expression. "Lucky for you, I came prepared for your unpreparedness."

I approach the side of my horse. I feel tired already and we haven't even started.

"Need a boost?" Stabbington comes around the backside of the horse.

"Maybe just your hand," I admit, reaching out.

Without warning—without _permission_ —he grabs me around the waist and hoists me into the saddle as easily as setting a loaf of bread on the counter. I sit there, sideways, tense as my own frozen victims—stunned, embarrassingly rattled. Anna is the only one who touches me. Ever. Period. (Not counting snow creatures.) I can still feel the exact places on my torso where his fingertips pressed; they tingle, as if burned. Heat rushes into my neck and face and my teeth clench in anger. I glower down at him, ready to blast him with the most royal, scathing reprimand he's ever heard in his life, but before I can . . . he laughs. _Laughs._

He walks off, shaking his head. "Man, your face. Worth it."

The way the man needles me, it is a sheer miracle I haven't frozen his heart yet. Or at least his mouth.

I must still be glaring, because when Stabbington swings onto his gigantic horse and glances at me, he laughs again. Actually, I think that's the reason I didn't ice him. Over two weeks, and I'm fairly sure this is the first time I've heard him laugh. The sound—gruff, and strangely appealing—surprised me almost more than his hands on me.

He pulls in the reins to steady his stamping horse. It's black; how appropriate. I don't think anyone rides the Clydesdales much. We mainly use them to cart heavy loads and to haul in ships when there's no wind. This one especially doesn't look tame, the mane tangled, the thick leg muscles quivering with energy, but again—fitting for the rider.

"All right, look," Stabbington says. "I'm sorry. What's up with you? You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"No, I mean . . . you keep going off to Elsa-land. You're distracted. Distant."

"Elsa-land?" I echo.

"Yeah." He loops a finger by his temple in the universal sign for _crazy_. "Just chill, okay? Everything's going to work out. The worst that can happen is we don't find him and you have to find a real boyfriend."

"Just chill," I repeat evenly, ignoring the fact that he pinpointed the source of my anxiety so easily. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Dunno. Do you think it's funny?"

"No."

He shrugs. "Mr. Frost probably doesn't have a sense of humor anyway."

That's it.

I send a blast of ice and wind into his side that knocks him off his horse. To my surprise, I'm not worried at all I might push too hard and freeze something I'm not supposed to. Not because I want to hurt him, but because I've simply come to accept he can take whatever I dish out. And he can. He gets to his feet with a groan, shaking ice off him. He climbs back on and clicks, nudging the horse forward. As he passes me, he grins. "That's my girl."

"No—no _my girl_." I kick my own horse after him. "When have I ever given off the impression that these cutesy, familiar nicknames are okay with me?"

"You haven't. I just like bugging you."

"That has been painfully clear from day one."

We pass through the now always-open gates, turning in the direction of the mountains. Stabbington doesn't say anything else and as we make our way through the sleepy village in continued silence, I'm suddenly suspicious. Did he do all that on purpose? If so, I have to admit . . . it sort of worked. I'm much more relaxed.

In fact, even beyond this morning . . . I'm more comfortable with Stabbington (after only a few weeks!) than I am with anyone except Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and Sven—and since two of those aren't even human, it's safe to say my relationship pool is wanting. It's not that I'm particularly fond of Stabbington, but with him I've never made any effort to be perfect, poised, or refined. The opposite, actually. I purposely don't bother with patience in order to drive him away. He's fended off not only my insults, but the sting of my powers. It seems like I'm always losing my temper with him, and yet, he's fine. Whether I like it or not, seeing him handle me at my worst makes me trust him.

We cross into the woods. The shade brings a chill and the dewy foliage shivers as the forest wakes up. The path becomes narrow enough we're forced to travel in a line, Stabbington leading.

"I have a proposition," I call up to him.

"Uh-oh."

"Don't you want to hear it?"

No answer, for a moment. Finally, he says (reluctantly, if I'm any judge), "Do I have a choice?"

"Just while we're outside of the castle borders—and only then—you can call me Elsa."

Nothing—again. Now who's being distant and quiet?

"Am I allowed to call you Kay?" I ask, a little annoyed.

His massive shoulders shrug in a movement that goes through his whole body. "Call me whatever you like. But just because we use our first names doesn't mean we're suddenly buddy-buddy."

That stings, to my surprise. Not that I know why I'm surprised. Obviously we're not friends. At least not in the affectionate, fond sense of the word. But still . . . it hurt more than I thought it would to hear him put it so bluntly.

. . . . . . . . .

The rest of the day passes much the same way. We ride and ride and ride—rest a little, fill up our water canteens by a creek—and then we ride some more. Stabbington is about as talkative as a rock and I'm not much better. There's no way I'll complain about it to him, but I'm sore everywhere from my lower back to my ankles. The sun is hot. All day I've been carefully summoning storm clouds to follow us and block the blazing rays, while holding off the actual blizzard.

I'm wondering how I can suggest another break but make it look like his idea, when I see a thin curl of smoke rising over the treetops.

"Look!" I say, pointing.

He does. "Yeah, so?"

I deflate a little. "Is it another traveler, up this high?"

"First of all, we're not up that high yet. You'll notice it's still pretty warm. And it isn't a person. There's a mountain inn over that way."

An inn? I practically swoon. With chairs? With cooked food, instead of the dry, cold stuff we ate for lunch? Maybe even . . . a bath? That sounds wonderful.

"Let's stop," I say, sounding pretty convincingly casual, if I do say so myself.

"No."

Just like that. He doesn't even consider it.

"Why not?" I demand hotly.

With a loud sigh (just in case I might misinterpret how annoyed he is), he reins in his horse and turns around so he faces me. "Look, Your Highness—it's not going to be some cozy village inn. Places up in these parts are for trappers, hunters, ice harvesters, and the occasional thug not wanting to venture too close into town. That kind of rough crowd would eat you alive, and if you play the Queen card, they'll be all the more hostile about it. They won't kick you out, but they might spit in your food."

Hm. Rough, rude, burly men? "But you'd fit right in," I point out.

"How do you think I know what it is?"

"So, I'll just keep quiet. We won't tell them I'm the queen. I'll let you do the talking."

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes closing in a grimace.

"Come on," I nudge. "Are you really going to turn down the opportunity to boss me around?"

His eyes slit open into a flat glare. "It's not that. It's—" He grunts. "The only women in these places are usually bar wenches. I just—okay. We'll grunge you down a little and tell everyone you're my kid sister, and if they touch you, they'll taste their nose in the back of their throat. That'll probably work."

Um. Sure?

If someone like Stabbington told me I'd taste my nose in the back of my throat for touching something of his, I'd listen.

The inn isn't cozy, as Stabbington warned. It has a crooked foundation, built on a slope, and the roof is thatched and juts at odd angles. Soot and pine residue have stained it mostly black. _The Axe Tavern_ a wooden sign reads.

Stabbington ties our horses, then proceeds to "grunge me down." "Tie this over your hair," he instructs, handing me a burlap kerchief (previously wrapped around the blade of a curved dagger he pulled from who-knows-where). He tucks the dagger into a more visible spot on his belt and I twist my hair into a bun, dutifully securing the coarse fabric over my head.

"Okay. Cloak, off."

I do as I'm told.

He examines me up and down through narrowed eyes. "The dress is still too fancy looking . . ."

  
I glance down at it. Fancy? This is one of the most plain dresses I own. Navy blue, simply cut. No embroidery or jewels. Light fabric, for summer.

Stabbington pulls a leather vest from one of his own packs and puts it over my shoulders. It drowns me, the bottom hem almost hitting my knees.

"There we go," Stabbington mutters. "Final touch . . ." He ties the leather vest snug around my waist by looping a piece of rudimentary twine several times around my torso and pulling it snug. I stand, arms outstretched, waiting for approval—but he's not done yet.

He bends down, picks up a handful of moist, black earth—and rubs it in my face!

"Hey!" I shriek and reel back, out of his reach.

He grabs my arm and tugs me forward again. "Stop squirming."

"Ugh—gross," I whine, but I try and hold still as he smears dirt into my cheeks, my neck, the quarter-length sleeves of my dress, and my hands. Remember how I don't like touching? Well, a full-body dirt massage definitely falls into the category of uncomfortable.

"All right," I huff when he's finished. I step back and straighten my shoulders, hands on my hips. "I think I'm grunged down. I look like a homeless person."

"Don't stand like that." He pushes on the tops of my shoulders. "Slouch."

I hunch and glare at him. "Better?"

He studies me for a long moment, then his features soften. He sighs. "You're still too pretty."

I blush, even though the way he said it, it could just as easily have been an insult.

"Oh well. That's as bad as it's getting. Let's go."

He makes me walk behind him as we go through the front door into the dim tavern. My nose automatically wrinkles. Yuck. What is that smell? Urine, sweat, some unidentifiable rot? One of Stabbington's hands comes to my upper back. I let him lead me. He was right. It's almost all men in here, and they all give us a passing stink eye as we enter. They each look as scary as Stabbington, though I note none are quite as big as he is.

Stabbington guides us to a corner and tells me to "Wait here" in a low voice. I make the mistake of glancing in the direction of one of the probing sets of eyes I feel. The man staring at me smirk, revealing a pointed set of teeth.

I meet his stare with a cool glare of my own, and freeze the ale inside the mug he holds. As I turn back, I feel a little smug (I'm getting pretty good if I can freeze the liquid without frosting the mug). Stabbington sits across from me, passes me a drink, and says, "I saw that."

"Saw what?" I ask innocently. I examine the frothy liquid in my mug. "What is this?"

"Hard cider. Lightest thing they had."

I take an experimental sip. Actually, it's not that bad. "You were right. I was going to try and bully you into getting us two rooms to stay the night, but now I'm not so sure outside wouldn't be cleaner."

"I tried to warn you."

"At least it's nice to get out of the saddle."

Stabbington looks particularly menacing in this lighting, his face craggy and dark. You would never guess, looking at him, that he had a nice laugh, or a wickedly grim sense of humor.

"Do my eyes deceive me?" A short, gray-haired man appears as if from nowhere by our table. He's hard-looking, and must, if my watering eyes are any indication, account for at least half the smell in the place.

Stabbington tenses and shifts immediately into don't-mess-with-me mode. He has different levels of terrifying, and this one ranks somewhere near the top.

"Sod off," he says darkly.

"Whoa now—don't you recognize me? Corona, remember? From the job with the ruby brooch?"

"I recognize you just fine," Stabbington says. He keeps his gaze down. "I just don't like you."

"Ouch. Where's the other half of the ruthless Stabbington brothers, anyway? Didn't think it was even possible to get one half of you without the other . . ."

Stabbington stands—slowly, without pointed threat. Still, the man cowers beneath his massive height. Stabbington's face is calm, his eyes lidded—but inside the pale blue orbs, something ugly is writing like a pit of snakes. I'm suddenly afraid I might have to unleash my powers and reveal myself just to stop Stabbington from killing this man.

"Get out," Stabbington whispers.

The man gets out—as fast as his drunken legs will carry him. Stabbington sits down again. The tavern is completely silent.

"You have a brother?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. "No."

"But—"

"He's dead."

A hand goes to my mouth. That moment—those horrible seconds when I cried over Anna's frozen frame, thinking I'd lost her forever—hits me again like a ton of bricks. Nothing hurts worse than the death of someone made of your flesh and blood. "I'm sorry, Kay . . ." I reach out and touch his hand. He pulls away.

I wince. "Sorry, I know I'm cold—"

He stands abruptly. "Come on. We've rested enough. We need to—" He breaks off as a torrent of rain lands on the tavern, filling the small space with a dull buzz. Sheets of water patter against the windows.

My blizzard, I realize. I let the clouds follow us, and just now, my emotions . . . I didn't mean to draw back my power, but I did. Without the core of my ice inside it, it must be melting—or raining, as it were. There's no way we can go out like this. And I know . . . it will keep on for another few hours.

Stabbington sags in defeat.

"I can ask about the rooms," I say. Then add, "I'm tougher than I look."

He doesn't crack a smile; barely acknowledges that I said anything. This is going to be a long night.


End file.
